Hugh J. O'Donnell

The General threw a cloak over his shoulders and left his tent to inspect his troops. Each carried a lantern atop his spear. They would light their way to the castle of his hated enemy, the Duke.
Their clans had been warring for centuries. While there was little contact between them, the General knew that the Duke feared an ancient prophecy: His castle would fall on a snowy night, surrounded by starlight.
The General gave the order to move out. He would leave an offering on his great-grandfather’s grave when he returned in thanks for planting the prophecy long ago.

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He lowered himself into the stone chamber carefully on a steel cable. He shone a light through the vast space, and what he saw took his breath away.
The old castle still lay waiting beneath the surface. His beam shone on delicate columns carve directly from the rock and wide, grand staircases. The air smelled musty and dry. No mould had gotten in to ruin his prize.
He touched lightly down on a landing, and a circle of runes glowed white at his approach. The magic of the Ancients still had power.
It was the archeological find of the century.

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They had lived in the crumbling sky city for generations, believing the old wisdom that the surface was uninhabitable. But he looked down at the ground, saw the vast plains and rolling hills, and felt an overwhelming urge to explore them.
He built a falling machine of his own design and jumped from the lowest platform. After a harrowing few minutes, he found himself on the ground, shaken but unharmed.
He explored and learned everything he could about this mysterious new world. But he had no way to return home. Instead, he found himself in the city of the fallen.

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When her grandfather died, everyone whispered about who would inherit his fortune, but all he left her was his china collection.
The plates were beautiful, but she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. The thing was, nobody else seemed to inherit the fortune, either.
In time, the whispers quieted, and the family concluded that he must have spent all his money.
One day, she broke a saucer and tried to find a replacement. But there was no maker’s mark on the back, and when she looked closely, the red-painted pastoral patterns were all different.
Her grandfather had left her a map.

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When the explorers came to trade their hard metals for practical things like food and medicine, we knew what they really wanted. We had seen what became of our neighbors, and contrary to their opinions, we weren’t stupid.
We traded with them but said little. And we made sure they saw the wonders of our land, especially the Far Valley. When the explorers saw the fertile soil and gorgeous views, they had to take it for themselves.
We didn’t warn them about of the dragon that slept beneath the hills, due to soon awaken from his hundred years of sleep.

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He looked up and saw the symbol piercing the darkness of the night: An eldritch mark of light and shadow reflected and projected to every corner of the city.
It was a symbol of madness but also the truth. It was a rejection of the comforting lies of sanity and an acceptance of the bleak, vast universe as it was.
Everyone in the city who saw the symbol knew what it meant. It was a call to action and a call for help. It was his symbol, and he raced into action when he saw it. The city needed Cthulhu-Man!

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When you hang a warlock, you stick around to make sure he’s dead.
We hung the bastard at noon and sat three nights with the body in case he was playing opossum. We sat around the fire and told stories, keeping an eye on the corpse and occasionally poking it with a brand.
“Alright, fellas, let’s mosey,” I said on the third dawn. We doused the fire and packed our horses. The rest of the posse hit the trail, but I hid behind the hanging tree and waited. I was the only one who heard the corpse sigh in relief.

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